Depravity
by I Was Here Moments Ago
Summary: What if Moriarty won? - TW - Torture, violence, major character death.


Jim wishes he could say that he'd known Moran wouldn't fail, but he never _has_ been able to put confidence in anyone other than himself. Everyone else gets it wrong, never quite perfect. But then, how difficult to mess up could picking a lock in the night and drugging a couple of sleeping bodies be?

Still, he'd had his doubts and had been pleasantly surprised when the unconscious consulting detective had been brought through his door. It felt too easy.

He supposes the big brother will be after him. Jim might leave him a note. He'd have ten pints of blood's worth of ink.

There had been a time when Jim would have wanted to do it all himself. The capture. Luring Sherlock in - that had always seemed like half the fun. Except it had gotten tiresome. Sherlock had stopped playing along. He had become bored which had made Jim bored. This - _this_, however - the fun is in the fact that Sherlock has been captured by someone a _fraction _of his intelligence, the fact that the great Sherlock Holmes is tied up in his pajamas in Jim's kitchen completely at his mercy.

Moran had wanted the doctor, too, but Jim had said no. John would get help and Jim still needed to have _some _fun, and, as they said, most of that was in the chase. That he'd be the one being chased made no difference to him.

Sherlock is stirring, his fingers twitching, his eyes slowly opening.

Time to begin.

"Once upon a time," Jim starts, feeling his heart speed up in anticipation as he swings his legs back and forth beneath the table he's sat on, "there lived a young knight."

"Moriarty-"

"Shh, shh, don't interrupt," Jim grins. "_Rude_."

Sherlock's still groggy from the drugs, but he's trying _desperately_ (bless him) to keep his eyes open. "What do you want?"

"To tell you a story!" Jim sounds offended. He chuckles quietly at himself; he's already enjoying this. "_Listen_. Will you listen? Because if you don't, I _can_ cut out your tongue." Sherlock rolls his eyes and sighs. Bored already? Not for much longer. "This young knight," Jim continues, adding a chid-like edge to his voice, "liked dead bodies." Jim jumps down from the table, and leans back against it, watching Sherlock closely. "He liked to see how people died. One day, this knight met an evil king who ruled over all the little criminals the knight had had arrested. He decided that this king must be stopped. But it wasn't that easy. Because the king was cleverer than the knight. The king was stronger than the knight. And so the king won." Jim walks slowly over to the chair Sherlock is tied to and bends down so they are at eye level. "He wondered," Jim breathes, "if the knight would like dead bodies so much when he was one himself."

"So you're going to kill me?" Sherlock raises an eyebrow, unimpressed.

Jim moves closer, breathes against his lips, noting with pleasure how Sherlock moves back _very _slightly, "Oh no, my dear, no no no." He pauses and his smile is feral. "I'm going to _slaughter_ you." He grabs Sherlock by the throat, pulls him forward, sinks his teeth into the side of his neck. Sherlock makes a strangled sound - biting back a yell or a hiss of pain - he's going to be difficult. Jim hesitates, lets himself get just a _hint _of the taste of his blood before he lets go, pushing him back, making the chair wobble precariously.

There's flash of something not quite fear - apprehension? - in Sherlock's eyes as he moves away.

Jim's pleased. He watches as Sherlock scans the kitchen, looking for an escape. "Bit risky, isn't it? Your own house?"

Jim's response is cold. "That's half the fun." He retrieves a length of fabric from the table, and does nothing for a moment, lets Sherlock work it out. "The science of deduction," he announces, stepping closer to the detective. "'I observe everything. From what I observe, I deduce everything.' It's on your website." Jim smiles pleasantly. "What happens, then, when you can't observe?" He ties the blindfold roughly around Sherlock's head, pulls tightly - tightly enough for the bound man to make a quiet noise in the back of his throat.

"I have other senses," there's an edge to Sherlock's voice that sends a thrill shooting down Jim's spine as he reaches for a knife, "You can't shut them all off."

The consulting criminal laughs then, a short quick shriek of mirth. "Can't I, Sherlock? _Can't I? _I could cut out your tongue, take your hearing, _suffocate _you. Dull every sense except for touch so you _really _feel what I'm going to do to you._" _He raises his voice, excitement clear, "Why _don't _I? Tell me, _Sherlock_, while you can still talk, why I shouldn't."

"Do you want me to beg? Because-" Jim forces the knife into his mouth while he's speaking, presses the cold, flat edge down against the detective's tongue.

"Don't let me stop you. _Carry on_." He's met with silence. "Play the game, Sherlock, won't you? Don't be _boring_. And don't forget I know where your little pet sleeps. The foot of your bed's only a ten minute drive away. I said carry _on_."

There's an odd noise as Sherlock tries to speak, and Jim feels his tongue pushing against the edge of the knife. It would only take a quick flick of his wrist to turn it, make the man push his own tongue against the blade. Why not?

He turns the knife, but Sherlock's careful, he's still. Jim sighs; looks like he's going to have to do everything himself. He presses the blade down on the back of the tongue. He's met with resistance as he drags the blade forward through the muscle and the nerves, holding Sherlock steady by his throat. Jim's breathing heavily; aroused - not quite sexually. It's a strange feeling, the _pleasure _he gets watching the blood form, tiny spots of it at first, growing and growing into a pool Sherlock could easily drown in. He jerks the knife forward, an agonized yell forcing it's way out of Sherlock's throat, spraying blood _everywhere_. He'd be annoyed, but it's such a _wonderful_ shade of red. Really brings some colour to his frankly _boring _kitchen walls. He wants to pull the knife back, keep sawing away until he's stopped by bone or boredom, whichever comes first, but if he dies before Moriarty is finished then he _won't _be impressed.

He puts a hand gently on Sherlock's forehead, tips it forward so the blood leaks out of his mouth, his laboured breathing and his frankly lazy attempts to hold his whimpers back making it drip in heavy, frequent bursts. "Shh, shh," Jim strokes his hair, "It's alright. Breathe. _Breathe_. Calm do- I said _shh_." His fingers knot in Sherlock's curls and he slaps him hard across the face. "Shh."

He's trying to speak with his useless tongue, more blood spraying onto the floor. Pathetic. Jim removes the blindfold.

"Rather unbecoming, that," he smiles. "So do you want me to cut your eyes out or just pour some bleach into them?" His head cocks to a side. "Nah, wouldn't want you bleeding to death _just _yet, _idiot_. Bleach it is."

He retrieves a bottle from his kitchen cupboard, unscrews the lid. "What's that? No retort? Do you _want _this, Sherlock? Are you getting _off _on this? I'll take your silence as a yes. You disgusting animal," he says happily, as he tilts Sherlock's head back. He's struggling madly, and Jim lets him go, watches him splutter, blood leaking out of his mouth as he attempts to untie himself desperately. Jim raises his eyebrows as he grabs him again, pushes his head back with the hand forcing his left eye open, and pours the liquid in. He stands still for a few seconds, listening to the gurgling in Sherlock's throat, the scream building there, probably caused more by the thought of losing of his eyesight than the pain. Jim lets go and Sherlock's head falls forward as he coughs up blood, a pathetic whimper tearing its way out of his throat. His hands are pulling at the ropes binding him to the chair, frantically trying to escape the bonds, get rid of the bleach burning his sight out of his eyes.

"Next one?" Jim suggests. _Jesus. _He's going to knock that chair right over if he carries on like that. Looks like a few bones will have to be broken first. He glances around the kitchen. "Seb? Seb, love, where did you put the hammer? Get me the hammer. Now."

"Not your slave," is the response called from the next room. They both know he is.

Jim climbs back onto the table to wait. "Sorry about this. Unprofessional of me. Oh _shut up, _you're not even going to _need _your sight when you're dead- Seb."

Sebastian shows up with the hammer, glances at Sherlock. "Is that it? You're taking your time."

"I told him the story," Jim says, taking the hammer. "We're out of milk. I need milk."

"So get it yourself," Sebastian grins, but he grabs his coat from the hook as he leaves the kitchen and Jim hears the front door slam.

Jim turns back to Sherlock. He has an eyebrow raised and is smirking. Quite a feat, considering his circumstances. He takes half a second to be impressed. "Oh shut up. How _are_ your reflexes, by the way?," He raises the hammer. "Shall we have a - you _bastard_." Seems the detective's spent too long smirking and the blood in his mouth has built up, as there's a fucking _lot _of it that's just been spat all over Jim's face. He brings up the hammer, but suddenly Sherlock's stood up; he's managed to untie himself and is already heading for the door; not sticking around to fight? Coward. Jim runs after him but Sherlock's outside - he's going to lose him _and _the son of a bitch has got blood all over his living room carpet. When Jim makes it into the garden, he sees Sherlock struggling with Moran, whose arms are wrapped tightly around the detective. Jim raises the hammer and brings it down hard, aiming for Sherlock's leg, not quite caring if he gets Sebastian instead.

The groan is deeper than Seb's, though, and he's had a _lot _of experience with Seb's groans. Good. Let's see him try and get away now. "Carry him back inside," Jim orders. Sherlock's _still _struggling. _Idiot_.

It doesn't take long for Moran to have him tied up again, and now Jim's done playing. He doesn't speak as he drags Sherlock's head back by his hair, pouring the bleach into his other eye. Sherlock's not struggling as much; whether it's because he's given up or due to blood loss Jim doesn't know. He doesn't care until he hears the low moan of pain and feels Sherlock almost press into him, his head lolling back. It's not over yet. He may have escaped but now Moran has got him bound tightly once more - he can still have his fun. Jim strokes his hair thoughtfully for a moment, before pushing his head forward again. Hearing. That needs to go next. He'd gotten a syringe ready earlier - he'd not been _entirely _unprepared. He bends down to whisper into Sherlocks ear, "It's all about to get very quiet."

Jim grins, pulls him by his hair again, this time to a side so his ear is facing upwards. He jams the syringe roughly into Sherlock's ear, right through his ear drum and presses down so acid leaks out.

The agonized groan reminds Jim exactly why this is so _fun, _and it's _building_, slowly and slowly getting louder and louder and Jim thinks it's time for the next ear so he roughly yanks his head to the other side and when he puts the syringe in this time Sherlock struggles. He's trying to speak again, but it's lazy, the blood loss is making him sleepy, the pain making him stupid.

"I can't _hear _you," Jim grins, chuckling to himself as he injects the acid one more time, and _there_ it is. It's taken this long but at least that was a _proper_ scream. He's not been _this _satisfied in a very long time. "Deduce me _now,_" Jim laughs, dragging Sherlock to him by his neck, Jim's fingernails digging into the pale skin. "Look at you. _Stupid_. _Dying_. Look - I've won! I've beaten you! I've taken _everything _from you and now you're going to _die_ and - _oh._ I could leave you like this. I could make you live like this. I could do that, because it's up to _me_, because I am your _God _now, Sherlock, I get to decide. I get to decide what you feel and when you feel it, when you live and when you die. And guess, what, my dear? _Guess what_? Time to die."

Jim loves knives. He's always had a fondness for them, and he retrieves the bloody one he'd used earlier on Sherlock's tongue. He makes a half hearted incision down Sherlock's arm, watching the blood stain the detective's pajama top. He cocks his head to a side. Nope. Not good enough. He moves closer, practically straddling him, digs the knife into the corner of his face and drags down, diagonally, to his chin. Sherlock doesn't make much noise; perhaps he's close to death, perhaps with the pain of everything else this isn't registering. The blood, though, the bright red on the white skin - it's _beautiful_. He's certain that Sherlock has the most wonderful blood he's ever seen. He makes another incision on his face slowly, marveling at the aesthetics of it all until the moment's ruined by the damned man spluttering more blood out of his mouth.

He's tempted - very tempted - so, why not? He leans forward and presses his lips against Sherlock's, his tongue slipping into the bloody mouth, tasting it, drinking it, savouring it for just a few moments before he bites down hard on Sherlock's bottom lip, drawing more out. He licks it up.

It'll be a shame, he thinks, when this is over.

Sherlock's trying to move away. Of course he is. Bleach and knives are one thing but this is one form of torture the virgin will die never having understood. He can't quite breathe- how _wonderful_ would it be if Jim literally kissed him to death? Kept going until he choked on that delightful blood? The thought thrills him.

His tongue moves deeper inside Sherlock's mouth; the only response he gets is a panicked whimper or two. He's trying to cough, clear his airways, but can't draw a breath.

Jim can feel Sherlock's heart hammering and suddenly the white skin is a barrier. He wants to _feel _it, hold it in his hands as it beats for the last time. He pulls away, grips the knife and slices open his shirt. The scratch is already bleeding.

He's so _delicate_.

He works the blade into his chest, stroking his face gently as he forces the knife down. It's not easy; he's sure it's caught on bone. He's so _skinny_. He pulls harder. Yes, definitely bone. If he breaks it now, though, he might die. And he's not _allowed _yet.

He pulls the knife another way, only now becoming aware of the delightful noises Sherlock is making. And it's down to _him_. "I told you I'm God," he mutters, as he hacks away at his chest. Ahh, there. A nice deep cut. He plunges his hand in, working the hole bigger as he pulls at the skin with his other hand. There's a low, quiet groan, and he thinks the detective has lost consciousness for a moment but Seb's there, watching carefully whilst injecting Sherlock with enough stimulants to keep him with them, keep him _his_.

He feels his way to the heart - experience has taught him where to look - wraps his fingers around it. Beating. Not for much longer.

He pulls.

The warm blood, that _gorgeous _blood, he wants to lick it again, but no, no, the time for that has passed. Sherlock's still alive, barely. Jim looks down at the heart in his hands. Not that impressive. As hearts go, this is spectacularly unremarkable.

It's boring.

He's disappointed. He lets it drop to the floor as he waits for Sherlock to die, makes more lacerations, picks away absentmindedly at the skin, revealing more and more of that blood. He hears a car pull up outside.

He glances at Seb, stands up, ready to leave through the back door. They'll never find him if he doesn't want them to.

"The brother?"

Seb nods, walks silently to the exit.

It's quiet for a moment, save for Sherlock's slow, raspy breaths.

As Jim closes the door behind him, it's just quiet.

Dead.

Everyone dies.

Sherlock's no different.

He never was that special after all.


End file.
